220 days sober “You’d better have a fucking ace reason for having me meet you here!” I’m only a few feet away from Declan, but I have to shout to be heard over the sound of our combined car stereos. Both of us are playing local radio stations; I’m tuned in to alternative, he’s blasting country, and it hurts my soul that New York even has a country station. He cups a hand around his ear to signal that he still can’t hear a damn word I’m saying. I cut my car engine and tumble out of the car into the clearing, both hands clutching an extra-large cup of coffee and espresso. The coffee helps with the pain of having been summoned here before noon--worst spring break schedule ever—but my sunglasses barely do anything to block out the early morning light. “There’s absolutely no reason for us to be in the woods right now. I’m from Cleveland, dude, I don’t like being in the woods. I get that you’re from the fucking Cornholer State—” “It’s the Cornhusker State, you dickhead. ‘Corn husking’ is what it’s called when you remove the outer husk from an ear of corn. ‘Cornholing’ is anal sex. At this point, I’m sure I’ve got enough practical experience in both to know the difference,” Declan says. He sits up in the bed of his truck—not enough to be fully upright, just enough to prop himself up on his elbows. “And if you keep complaining, I won’t give you the present I got you.” I tip my chin down so that my sunglasses slide down the bridge of my nose enough for him to see the spark of delight in my eyes. “You got me a present?” “I did. And if you come over here, I’ll actually give it to you,” he says. I practically hop over to him, slopping hot coffee all over my hand as I do so, but the pain barely registers. I love presents. I clamber up into the truck bed with him, and he points towards the other end of it, right up near the cab. The locked case for his Smith & Wesson is sitting up, balanced carefully against the front of the bed. Right next to it, there is a second, identical case. A wide smile spreads over my face almost as quickly as the warmth spreads through my stomach. “Really?” “Said I’d get you one, didn’t I?” he says. He rolls onto his knees and shuffles over the truck bed so that he can hand me the case. “It’s not locked right now, you can set the combination to whatever you want. Go on. Open it.” I pop open the latches and flip the top back. It’s a SW1911, not a 5906 like his, but it’s still fucking gorgeous. The barrel is practically gleaming, and when I remove it from the case, it feels perfectly weighted in my hand. After the guitar Jamie bought me for my birthday a few weeks ago, the bar for present perfection is set pretty high, but this pistol provides some heavy competition. I place it back in its case, set it aside, and press Declan down onto the truck bed to show my appreciation.

We spend the entire day out in the clearing together, alternating between firing at apples and cans that we’ve lined up on a table on the far side of the clearing, and fooling around in the truck bed. I put a stop to that country nonsense as soon as possible, but since I’m not a fan of silence, Declan and I end up arguing over what we can turn on that won’t cause one of us to shoot the other. Eventually, we go right back to Johnny Cash. It’s kind of brilliant, and when I loudly sing along, “always be a good boy, don’t ever play with guns,” Declan rolls his eyes, but fights a smile anyway. When he aims, his focus is so sharp and laser-like, you’d think there was a sniper scope behind his eyes. It feels wrong to interrupt, so I wait until he’s between shots to say, “Can I ask you a question?” “Sure,” he says, “but I reserve the right to ignore you, if you ask something I don’t feel like answering.” “What’s the deal with West Point?” I ask. “I mean, why do you wanna go there and become an officer with a—what is it? Seven year commitment, minimum?” “Eight,” he says, firing off a shot that hits the last remaining can. “Five years active duty, three years reserve. But if I go for twenty years active duty, I could be retired at forty-one. And I’d probably be a lieutenant colonel by then.” “Or you’d be all sorts of dead,” I say flatly. “You think you can tool around war zones for twenty years and not get your head blown off?” He snorts. “You give this same lecture to Goldwyn?” “Every chance I get,” I say. “And I’ll tell you what I tell him—if you’re so fuckin’ set on the military thing, you should just enlist right out of Patton and do four years. Don’t re-up, don’t become an officer, don’t lock yourself into a career that’s just gonna get your legs blown off. Or give you PTSD. Did you know the suicide rate of returning Army soldiers is higher than any of the other branches’?” Declan removes the empty magazine from his pistol, flicks the safety on, sets it down in its case, and turns to face me fully so that I don’t miss the cheeky smile he gives me. “They make prosthetic limbs for a reason, Anderson. And there’s treatment for PTSD.” “Says the guy who’s never had it,” I snap, and his face goes blank. I don’t care—I’m too wound up to know how to stop myself from talking. “You think you sit down for forty-five minutes, your shrink snaps her fingers, and it all goes away? The panic attacks, the nightmares, the flashbacks that are so fucking real that sometimes, you can’t even remember where you are or what day it is or if that pain you feel is happening to you right now? You think that’s easy to deal with? Because it’s not. And if you think I’m bullshitting you, then you’re an idiot, and you deserve whatever demons come to live in your head when you get out.” Declan’s eyes hold mine for nearly a minute before they slowly pan down my body, then back up to my face. “Your hand is shaking.” “No, it’s not,” I say immediately, even though it probably is. I don’t know; I can’t feel it. Declan slowly raises both of his hands to show me his palms, then reaches for me. “Yes, it is. It’s also holding a firearm, so I’m going to take this—” I let him pry the gun from my grip, “—and we’re going to disarm it—” He ejects the magazine, puts the safety on, and sets it aside, “—and you’re going to listen to me.” I nod dumbly. “Yeah. Okay.” He fists his hands around the hem of my t-shirt and presses his knuckles against my stomach to back me up against the side of his truck. Once he’s satisfied that I’m not going to push him away, he releases my shirt and braces his hands against the truck on either side of me. “I want to go to West Point and become a soldier for the same reason you want to blow off college and become a go-go boy,” he says. “Because we’re fucked up. You and me, we like the same things—sex, drugs, fights, guns, liquor. Not much else. The difference is that you can afford—” One of his hands comes off the truck long enough to palm my wallet through my back pocket, “—to fuck up. You have wealthy, attentive parents who will love and support you, no matter how hard or far you fall. You have a best friend who I saw shoot a drug dealer in the leg just because he messed with you when you were fifteen years old. For fuck’s sake, Anderson, you have someone who has such insane amounts of love for you, he needs to be your roommate, your boyfriend, and your sibling all at once in order to feel like he’s giving you enough attention.” Oh, I’m sure Travis would be thrilled to hear that description of him. “And you know what I have? I have a birth mom who put me on a Greyhound bus to go live in another state when I was in second grade because she wanted to be able to party with her friends. I have a father who only ever bought me one thing: a step-stool so that I could reach the stove, because he couldn’t be bothered to cook dinner for his seven-year-old son during the whole month it took before he was bored enough to send me to foster care. I have grandparents who sat me down over the summer to tell me that they hope I get married before my first deployment, because they’re worried that the military won’t cover funeral costs if I’m killed in combat, and they don’t want to have to deal with it. I have nothing, okay? And I sure as hell don’t have your room for error. If I get arrested, no one will bail me out of jail. If I get addicted to drugs, no one will drag me to rehab.” A year ago, I probably would’ve considered him lucky for that. Right now, I just can’t believe that he has managed to say all of this without his expression wavering even once. Like he’s reading my thoughts, he finally lets one side of his mouth curl into a dry, blank smile. “It doesn’t really matter,” he says. “I’m used to being on my own, and for the most part, I prefer it. But I need West Point. I need the Army, I need something that’s going to matter, because if I don’t have that, I’m going to end up back in Nebraska. I’ll go back to working construction under the table, like I did before, and I’ll probably knock up some girls I don’t care about, have some kids I can’t really support, and then those kids’ll end up in the system once I inevitably become a junkie, because Christ knows I wouldn’t be able to stand living that life without a lot of chemical assistance.” He reaches up to cradle my neck in his hands, his thumbs digging into the hinge of my jaw. “I bet you hate the idea of growing up to be just like your parents. Well… so do I.” “I didn’t know your parents were junkies,” I say. He shrugs. “My father was when I lived with him, but I haven’t heard from him in ten years, so I don’t know if he’s sober or the same as he was. My mother’s parents are the ones who adopted me—I haven’t seen her since I was maybe ten years old, but they still talk to her, and as I understand it, she parties and parties until she gets a DUI, and then she goes to meetings for a few weeks so she can stay out of jail.” He presses his fingers harder into my jaw until my lips part and he can draw me into a long, deep kiss. When he releases me, he gives my a bright, fake smile and pats me on the cheek hard enough that it feels more mocking than affectionate. “And anyway, don’t act so surprised. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” We’re out of targets to shoot, and the guns have been put away, so there isn’t much else for me to do besides drag him up to the cab so we can fuck around one last time before I head out to meet Stohler before my audition. The easiest way to get this done without us falling off the bench is for him to ride me in the passenger’s seat, but that means that I’m stuck in place, unable to look at anything but him and his unbelievably attractive face. “I don’t know why you think that’s a good thing,” I blurt out halfway through. “What are you talking about?” he pants. “I don’t know why you think it’s good that I don’t know things about you. That nobody knows anything about you. I don’t get why you like being alone,” I say. “You say you don’t have anything except for West Point, and I get that, I don’t have much going for me either. But I’ve got people. Jamie and Ben and Stohler and T-Travis—” Declan circles his hips at exactly the wrong moment to have me groaning out the last name. He snorts, like he expected as much. I grab the back of his neck and haul him in close so that I can kiss him, so that I can say, “I love my friends, and they love me, and that’s what I have. And it doesn’t even require getting shot at. You could have that, too, if you weren’t such an antisocial little cun—” I’d finish the word, but Declan shoves three of his fingers into my mouth and groans, “Stop trying to talk to me about my feelings, Anderson, I don’t have any.” He slips his fingers back out after a minute, but before I can start talking again, he reaches over to crank up the stereo again, drowning me out with the only music we can agree on. It’s still all I can think about later, when I’m back out the house and packing my backpack for my audition. Stohler is lounging on my bed, pointing at things from across the room—the tiny pair of black shorts I’m planning to start in, a few other options because apparently costume changes are standard, a printed copy of my application and headshots, some bottles of water so I don’t get dehydrated over the course of the night, a small jar of pomade since my buzzcut has finally grown out enough that I can sculpt the shape of it a little. “Here, you can borrow this, too,” Stohler says, pushing a small metal cashbox at me. “Hopefully, you’ll be getting a lot of tips. When they get to be too much to keep tucked in your shorts or down your boot, you run to the dressing room and lock ‘em up in this, then put that in your locker with a—” “—combo lock, yeah, the guy who called me about the audition said to bring one,” I say. “Make sure you never leave your locker open, understand?” she says, aiming a finger at me. Her glittery gold nails have been filed into long points, like disco claws. “Understand,” I say, staring at her nails. “Is there anything else I’m supposed to bring?” She rolls off the bed onto her bare feet and reaches for her purse, a monstrous black bag covered in pink and blue glittery lightning bolts. She fishes around in it and eventually surfaces with a pair of skinny jeans that have been absolutely shredded to shit. “I got these for you,” she grumbles, looking very uncomfortable with the concept of giving someone a present. “When you first go out, you might be… uncomfortable. If you’re supposed to be dancing from ten o’clock on, the club’ll be pretty empty at first, and it’s easy to feel self-conscious then. Even for someone like you. So, your first outfit should be the black shorts, your boots, and these, with the button open and the zipper halfway down.” “How are they going to stay up if I don’t have them zipped?” I ask. She laughs at me, and I guess that’s as much of an answer as she plans to give, because she elbows me out of the way and heads for the door. I think I have everything I need, but I’m still feeling more anxious than I’m used to. I dig through my dresser until I find exactly what I need to get me really ready—a black t-shirt that’s got a picture of Johnny Cash, flipping the bird to the camera. I put it on, throw my own reflection the finger just for fun, and chase after Stohler. She drives us to the city in her Mustang and spends the entire drive trying to give me advice for how to get more tips from the customers, interspersed with promises that she will do everything in her power to sabotage my competition. It’s both alarming and sweet. Rush is easy to find, once we get to the city, but it’s not easy to get into, apparently. There are at least three bouncers at the door, and they all eye me warily as Stohler swerves up to the curb, says, “I’ll be back here by ten thirty, get the fuck out of my car,” shoves me out, and zooms off. I straighten up to my full height; the bouncers are unimpressed. “Hey,” I say slowly, “I’m Garen Anderson, I’m supposed to be auditioning for a job here tonight?” “Auditions for bartending jobs happen on Sunday nights,” one of the bouncers grunts at me. “It’s for a dancing job, not a bartending one,” I say. The three bouncers—two dudes and one giant lesbian—all look down at all two hundred pounds of me. I look down at myself, too. When I look back up, one of them is eying my lip ring. I shrug and say, in an exaggerated, campy lisp, “You’d never guess it, but I look great in a thong.” There’s a collective snort, and once they’ve checked my ID—my real one, though I still have no idea why I can work in a club at nineteen, but not be in a club—I’m allowed inside. The first thing I notice upon walking in the doors is that there are a lot more than the thirty people I’d been told to expect. There are closer to fifty, guys and girls alike, and I hope to god that means there are more than six jobs available, or I’m screwed. A tan-skinned boy with artfully highlighted hair hurries over to me and brushes a hand against my elbow. “Hey, you’re Garen, right? Your friend, Javi showed me a picture of you so I’d know who to look for. I’m friends with his girl, Vanessa?” “Paul, right? Thanks for that, man, it’s good to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand. “You, too.” Paul glances around and says in an undertone, “I’ll do everything I can to help you out, but I’m supposed to be impartial, and I don’t wanna get in trouble with the bosses. For now, just line up with the others and try to stay cool. The owners are going to go through the line and pick everyone apart. Anyone who doesn’t measure up—usually people who used a lot of Photoshop on their headshots—gets torn into and sent home now. You’ll be fine, you’re really hot, so I’ll meet up with you in the dressing room and give you some tips after that, okay?” I nod. He smiles reassuringly and scoots off to rejoin a girl in jeans and a neon yellow bra top. I join the long line of other auditioners, drop my bag at my feet, and shove my hands into my pockets, trying to resist the urge to size anyone else up. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I have a hot body and a cute face. I know how to dance. I’ve got Paul giving me a recommendation, and I’ve got Stohler ready to infiltrate the crowd and help me out however she can. I can do this. I can. But I don’t feel like I can, not when a voice booms out ten minutes later, “Oh my god, I can’t believe some of you made it in the door.” My eyes snap to the door. Three men have just sauntered in together, eying us all up like they’re picking items out of a buffet. One of them looks like he might’ve been cute back in the day, but he’s at least forty now, and not in a DILF way. The other two both look to be in their thirties, total opposites; one is tall and thin, with teeth that have been bleached too many times and skin that is practically gold with self-tanner, and the other is average height, fat, and has put way too much effort into waxing his eyebrows. All three of the men are holding man-purses; I have to chew on my tongue to stop myself from laughing. The fat one waves his hand to get our attention, but he pretty much had it from the moment he shouted. Now, he says, “Listen up, bitches. I’m Jonathan, this is Mikael.” The spray-tanned one waves, looking way too bored for a dude who’s got fifty hotties in front of him. “We own this club. This here is Ken, some of you probably spoke to him about your auditions. He’s our talent manager.” The old guy beams at us, swiping his gaze down the line to make eye contact with each of us individually. When he gets to me, I wink. Can’t hurt, right? “Here’s how it’s going to go,” Jonathan says. “Some of you? Are so fucking ugly, I’m not sure why you even bothered to show up. Some of you are so fat, I don’t even want to see you take your shirts off. So, we’re going to start off by kicking the uglies out, and then the rest of you can go get changed, and some of our dancers—” he snaps his fingers at Paul and the girl in yellow, “—will talk you through the rest of the night. Then, you have six hours to impress us.” He claps his hands together and yells, “Do you understand?” Most people just murmur some sort of agreement, but all these years at Patton have yes sir tumbling out of my mouth before I can think otherwise. The girl next to me gives me a strange look, but I keep my attention on the owners, who are already starting at the end of the line closer to me. They’re more vicious with their criticism than Jamie and I have ever been, even at our drunkest and bitchiest. Of the first ten people they move through, six are sent home, three of them in tears. The other four are pointed upstairs. I’m next in line, and the last thing I see before they get to me is Paul holding one finger to his lips in a very clear don’t say a word gesture. Oh, god, if I’d known I was supposed to stay silent, I would’ve stayed home. “This one’s not bad,” Mikael says, his eyes skating approvingly over my face. “His eyes are pretty. Let’s see a smile, I don’t want any boys with busted teeth.” I flash him my brightest grin, and he hums. “Nice. Jonathan, what do you think?” Jonathan hums right back, but his is a lot more critical than pleased. “I don’t like the buzzcut.” There’s no fucking way I’m losing a job over a haircut I got on a whim, so I lie, “I had to get it because I’m a student at a military academy. I can grow it out after graduation next month.” “Military school?” Ken echoes. “You’re eighteen, though, right?” “Nineteen,” I correct. But it’s Mikael who asks the truly important question. “Can you do a one-handed push-up?” Without saying a word, I shrug off my jacket, drop to the ground, and do six one-handed push-ups right in a row. I jump right back up, give him a big, cheesy smile, and shove my hands back in my pockets. He smiles. “What’s your name?” “Garen,” I say, and Jonathan’s sculpted eyebrows arch higher towards his receding hairline. “Karen?” he says. “Garen,” I say, maybe louder than necessary. “With a ‘g’, like in ‘go fuck yourself.’” Jonathan’s face mangles itself into a pinched, pissy expression. “Right. Garen. Weird name, I’m not sure the patrons will like it. That’ll have to change, if you end up working here, which seems a little… doubtful.” His eyes flicker over me, and he says to Mikael, “Really thick, isn’t he?” He’s gotta be fucking kidding—he’s talking like I’m not standing right here. More to the point, I don’t really speak “bitchy queen,” but I’m pretty sure he’s calling me fat. Mikael raises his eyebrows right back. It’s plain that he disagrees with the assessment, but doesn’t seem inclined to start a bitchfight with his partner. I didn’t expect anyone to defend me, but I don’t expect to let them insult me, either. I hook both thumbs under the hem of my shirt and hike it up to my collarbone so that everyone can see just how good my body is. One of the girls further down the line whistles; Mikael presses his lips together on a smile and looks away. I step closer to Jonathan, bare my teeth, and say right in his face, “Listen, sweetheart. There’s only one part of me that’s really thick, and you haven’t seen it. So, let me go get into my audition outfit, or send me home, but either way? Quit wasting my time with your blatantly bullshit insults.” Jonathan’s lips are still pursed, but he hasn’t bitch-slapped me, so that’s a good sign, at least. I let my shirt drop again. Jonathan’s eyes flicker down to it. A minute goes by, and he taps his finger against the face silkscreened on it. “That’s what we’re going to call you. Not Garen.” “What, Johnny?” I say, plucking at the shirt. Jonathan waves me off and moves on, pausing only long enough to say over his shoulder, “No. Cash. Now go get into your costume, I’m bored of you.” “You’re bored of—” “Conversation’s over, Cash, go get ready!” I scoop up my backpack and stride towards the stairs that all the other dancers have gone up. Halfway to the second floor, Paul catches up to me and hisses, “You need to be more careful.” “He needs to be less of an asshole,” I say shortly. “No, he really doesn’t—he’s the owner, and this is New York City. If you won’t accept his attitude with a smile on your face, he can find someone else who will,” Paul says. “Get changed and keep your mouth shut, okay?” I resist the temptation to point out that I do some of my best work with my mouth open, because I doubt the comment would be appreciated. Instead, I claim one of the empty lockers and—because people are still being selected and dismissed right now—I send a few texts. To Stohler, have to impress club owners: fat guy w/ creepy eyebrows & skinny guy w/ bad fake tan. u’ll recognize them, theyre mad old & bitchy looking. To Travis, possible new boss called me fat & changed my name bc he thinks “garen” is dumb. stop the ride, i wanna get off. can i come visit u @ work after they reject me @ 5am? To Declan, a picture of my t-shirt and the message, 1 of the owners refuses 2 call me anything but Cash. the other made me do 1handed pushups. who said my time @ patton hasnt trained me 4 the real world? And then, as an afterthought, I text Jamie, BEN GETS OFF WORK @ 10, IF U PUSSY OUT ON ASKING HIM TO BE YOUR BF, I WILL BREAK INTO UR APARTMENT & COVER UR CAT IN GLUE. By the time I change into the outfit Stohler chose for me, Jamie has responded, You will do no such thing. The little beast is spending the weekend at a “cat spa” while I am out of town. Because apparently, that is a real thing. A few seconds after that, he sends, I’ll ask him. Probably. Maybe. I roll my eyes, but there’s no time to reply, because everyone is being herded out of the dressing room. I lock up my belongings, take a deep breath, and follow. A few of the other auditioners are as dressed as I am, jeans on the guys, some shorts and cut-off t-shirts on the girls; most of the dancers, however, are already in their skimpiest outfits. A few are sent right back upstairs to change. “No,” says Ken, the only one of the bosses who has remained to watch this part of the process. “I’m sorry, everyone, but this isn’t a strip club. If you’re in a thong, go back upstairs and put something more substantial on. If you don’t have something more substantial, get dressed and leave.” One guy and two of the girls actually do leave at that. We’ve been narrowed down to maybe twenty-five people at the most. No one but me seems fazed by this. Those of us who remain are guided into the very center of the dance floor. The club doesn’t open for another forty minutes, but the main lights are already dimmed, the colored lights are on, and the DJ is spinning. My pulse flutters in my wrists and throat, and I grit my teeth so no one will guess. Paul wanders out to meet us, bringing the girl in yellow with him. He has stripped down to little white shorts, and she has lost her pants, leaving her in just a pair of tiny yellow underwear. “Alright, Marissa and I are going to give you a little crash course in being a Rush dancer,” he announces, clapping his hands together. “Rule number one? Everything is your fault. A patron gets mad at you, that’s your fault. A patron spills their drink on you, that’s your fault. A patron throws their drink at you—” “That’s our fault?” the girl next to me guesses. I snort. Some guy throws a drink in my face, and he’s going to be swallowing his own teeth. Marissa waggles a finger at the girl next to me. “Nope. Anyone throws anything at you, hits you, or tries to fight you, one of our bouncers will throw them out. We want all our dancers to be safe here.” “Which leads us to rule number two,” Paul continues. “There’s still only so much our staff can do to keep you safe if you’re going to be a dumbass. So, don’t rawdog the customers, don’t take candy from strangers, blah blah blah.” “Rule number three, don’t get sloppy,” Marissa says. “Come to work sober, or don’t bother showing up. If you come wandering in, totally strung out, you will be sent home. We don’t need to get shut down ‘cause one of our own dancers overdoses in the dressing room. There’s an open bar for all employees, and you should feel free to take advantage of it, but if you’re falling down or throwing up, you’re gonna get fired.” She says this with a gesture towards the bar, where something catches my eye. One of the bartenders seems to be doing a headcount of us all, and the other is lining up shot glass after shot glass, down the length of the bar. The first says something, and the second nods. Once there are enough glasses for everyone, each of the bartenders grabs one of the bottles of tequila and upends them, pouring straight down the line of glasses and meeting in the middle. Tequila, salt, lime, my mouth waters, and I want. I try to focus on Marissa, who is now saying, “Rule number four—and this is where I’m sure we’re going to confuse at least a few of you little sluts—this isn’t a brothel, and you cannot accept money for sex here. We’ll have to shut down again, and nobody has the time to deal with that. Don’t bring patrons into the bathrooms or the dressing rooms or the VIP lounge so that you can fuck them. They could be undercover cops, and there are laws about what we can and can’t allow, even when you’re getting tipped for dancing.” “A demonstration,” Paul announces, plucking a dollar from the bar surface and flapping it around. “This?” He hooks his finger over the top of Marissa’s underwear and pulls them off her skin enough to slip the dollar down the front. “Is illegal. And it will get you fired. Customers cannot put their hands on, around, or in any of your naughty places. Ladies, they cannot touch your titties or your pussy or your ass. Boys, they cannot touch your dick or your balls or your ass. A little pinch or a smack or something is fine, but if they linger, you’re breaking state law. It’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Marissa waves dismissively. “It’s simple enough. Someone goes to tip you inappropriately, and you turn out of it, like this—” Paul dips a shameless hand into her underwear to retrieve the dollar, then goes to repeat the move. Marissa twists her hips so that the dollar ends up tucked over the side near her hip. “See? Simple. Make the customer happy, but not too happy. If you make trouble for us, you’ll be thrown out on your ass like that.” She snaps her fingers. “You’ll be dancing from ten to four, and you’ll get a ten minute break each hour, but that’s not a fuck-off break. You have one minute to go up to your locker, stash all your money for safe-keeping—” “—only if you brought a lock, like you were told to, because it is so not our problem if someone else steals your cash—” “—right, so you empty your money, you freshen up, and you get your ass back down here. You can have a drink, but you do not sit down, and you must socialize. Mingle with the patrons, flirt a little, make sure everyone’s happy. We’ve been advertising this as an audition night, and Jonathan, Mikael, and Ken will be asking some of the regulars which of you they like, so I’d suggest being very sweet and making sure you introduce yourself.” “And if Jonathan gave you a new name, you’d better use that one, because god knows nobody cares about your real one,” Marissa adds, and I scowl. Cash, for fuck’s sake. How am I supposed to get anyone to actually tip me if I sound greedy enough to call myself Cash? “At the end of the night, once we’ve kicked everyone out, you can change back into your street clothes and get all ratchet-lookin’ again. Then, you count up all your tips and report that number to Laura, for check-in. You get to keep it all, but the bosses like to know how much you’re really worth. After that, hang around for a bit while they decide who stays and who goes.” “If you don’t get hired this time, you can try again in the future, but don’t freak out and embarrass yourself. Our bouncers will throw you out, and they will remember your face so that they can refuse you entry in the future.” Marissa looks expectantly around at our dazed expressions. “Any questions?” There is absolute silence. Paul claps his hands again. “Fantastic. Now, let’s kick this off right.” He gestures towards the bar and the long line of shot glasses that have been lined up. “A toast, to your short and shameless careers as Rush go-gos!” A second later, someone is pressing a shot glass of tequila into my hand. My stomach is churning. This was such a mistake. Once everyone has a glass, Marissa and Paul hoist theirs into the air and cheer. I raise my glass along with everyone else, but when they shoot down the liquor, I carefully set mine down on the bar in front of the bartender and lean in to quietly tell her, “I don’t drink. Whoever wants that can have it, okay?” “Thank you!” one of the other guys chirps and snatches it out of my hand. He tosses it back, squirms around in distaste, and says, “God, who turns down free tequila shots?” A recovering alcoholic, maybe? Not exactly something I want to advertise, though, so I smile, shrug, and don’t say a word. After that, Paul and Marissa start assigning us “stations”—places they want us to dance all night. There are platforms and miniature stages and cages all over the place. Marissa touches my arm and starts to guide me towards one of the cages, but Paul stops her and says, “No, let’s stick to putting the girls in heels in the cages. I don’t want any of them to fall, so they should have something to grab onto. We’ll put this guy on the bar. Maybe near Matty’s end?” Marissa snorts. “Good. They never put enough security over there, and this guy’s biceps are as big as my waist. Maybe he can scare people into behaving themselves.” Paul puts a hand on my back and steers me towards the bar, muttering in an undertone, “Ken told me we’re going to be doing a middle-of-the-night rotation of the dancers. People who are on the bar are going to be moved to the medium-height platform right in front of Kassidy in the DJ booth, and that’s where the best tips are. You’ll be moving there around twelve thirty, when things are at their peak and people start getting generous with tips.” “Thanks,” I say. “Are we really—once everybody’s in place, are we supposed to be dancing even when the doors first open and the whole room’s practically empty?” “Yes,” he says urgently. “Don’t ever stop dancing, seriously.” So, the second those doors open, I shelve my pride and shake my ass. Stohler’s one of the first people in the door. She scans the room and, once her eyes light on me, she makes a bee-line for the bar. She leans over it to give her order to Matty, one of the bartenders, then straightens up and says loudly enough for me to hear, “Don’t stop dancing, don’t act like you know me. I saw the owners. Anything else I should be aware of?” “They gave us the rules,” I say quickly. “Everything is our fault, don’t sell sex or let the customers grope you, don’t get sloppy drunk, mingle with people, never sit down. A ten minute break each hour, a position swap midway through the night, and they don’t like my name. I’m supposed to call myself ‘Cash’ instead, because of my stupid fucking t-shirt. And they gave everybody a shot of tequila already. The kid in the purple shorts took mine.” “I can probably get him drunk enough to get him kicked out. I’ll buy him a drink or two as soon as he gets off the stage for his first break, he’ll be gone by midnight. The shots were probably a test to see who they can trust not to get sloppy,” Stohler says. “And the name’s good—they told us outside that it’s audition night, said we should feel free to tell them our favorites. Cash is good. Cash is memorable.” Matty delivers her drink, and she smiles, thanks him, waits until he turns to someone else before she continues, “Here’s what you have to do: any time someone tips you, you smile at them, dance your way down closer to their height, and say something like, ‘thanks, sweetheart, what’s your name?’ And when they tell you, you say, ‘hi whatever-their-name-is, I’m Cash.’ If you do that with every single person who tips you, a couple of them are bound to remember you and recommend you by name. Practice now.” She picks a dollar out of her pocket and folds it over the waistband of my shorts, right near the hip. Marissa would be so proud. I swivel my way down into something like a kneel on the bar, flash her my brightest smile and say, “Gee, thanks, lady! My name’s Cash, can I interest you in some cunnilingus?” “I will shove you right off this bar and pierce your nutsack with my stilettos,” she says, smiling back just as widely. “Now fucking dance. I’m gonna go gank some of your competition.” And I don’t… I don’t know what I expected, but being a club dancer is fucking exhausting in every conceivable way. I feel like a tool, dancing around on a bar when the club is still half-empty—people are looking at me, but they’re not coming closer or giving tips or doing anything that makes me feel like less of a zoo animal. I can see Stohler making the rounds of the room, checking out the other dancers, scoping out the owners and their attitudes, doing recon like she thinks we’re at war. Time passes, and Paul comes over to me, taps the toe of my boot so I’ll crouch down to listen as he says, “It’s time for your first break. You have ten minutes. Run upstairs and take off the jeans, I think it’ll help you get more attention.” I climb down from the bar, and he leans closer to add, “And on your way back to the bar, make sure you stop and mingle with anyone who shows you interest. Smile, chat, make sure they’re having a good time, bring them to the bar because drunk people tip better. You need to smile more and make more eye contact, you look like you’re going to hit somebody.” “That’s just my face,” I try to protest, but he’s already walking away. Swearing under my breath, I take to the stairs. The dressing room is empty, thank god, so there’s nobody for me to embarrass myself in front of when I can barely get the stupid fucking jeans off. If I miraculously manage to get this job, I need to ask Ben for lessons on how to get out of skinny jeans without breaking a leg. I shove my feet back into my boots, adjust my junk so it looks as impressive as possible in the tiny shorts, then pause to check my texts. There’s a stream of them from Jamie, starting with McCutcheon and I agreed that I’d pick him up from work instead of having him drive to my hotel, I’m leaving now, progressing to I’m in the parking lot, do you think he expects me to go inside the shop?, then kind of spiraling down into I’ve just remembered that his father will be in that building as well, and now I’m too frightened to get out of the car, followed by he came outside before I could make up my mind, now he’s coming over to the car. He rolled his eyes and gave me the finger. Do you think I should drive away before he gets in?, and ending with I was in reverse when he opened the door, I think he figured out what I was about to do even though I hadn’t taken my foot off the brake yet. He kissed me hello anyway. Do you think that’s a good sign? There aren’t any messages from him after that, but there is one from Ben that says, I am locking his phone in the glovebox. You can text him tomorrow, you fucking cockblock. Neither Declan nor Stohler have bothered to text me back, but Travis has responded, You’re not fat, your name isn’t dumb, and you won’t get rejected. You’re gorgeous, and I love the way you move. You’ll get the job. Definitely come to my work after, coffee and breakfast sandwich on me. Good luck. I text him back a solid three lines of heart emoticons, lock my phone up, and bolt back downstairs. In the two minutes I’ve been gone, it seems like the number of people in the club has doubled. From the minute I clear the door to the stairs, I’m finally getting the attention I’d hoped for. I take two steps, and some girl’s hand is on my back as she coos to me, “My god, you are so cute!” “Thank you, honey,” I say, flashing dimples at her and her friends. “What’s your name?” “Gianna,” she says, beaming back at me. “Hi, Gianna, I’m Cash. You girls having a good time tonight?” I ask. My face feels like it’s stuck this way; being nice is so hard, I don’t get how people do this every day. Gianna and her three friends all nod and chatter over each other, assuring me that they’re having such a good time, and I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but I say, “Glad to hear it. And if there’s anything you need, let me know, alright?” Their chatter turns high-pitched and joyous, and as I turn to leave, one of them folds a bill into a tiny square, slips down the side of my shorts and winks at me. Huh. That’s… interesting. I take another few steps along the perimeter of the room and see Stohler, seated at one of the cocktail tables along the back wall, surrounded by a random gaggle of gays. It’s exactly how she looked when I first met her, and when she catches my eye and beckons me over, I join her as easily as I did that night. “Boys, this is my friend, Cash,” she announces. “Tonight’s his audition here.” None of the guys are gorgeous, but I give them a slow, sly smile like they’re all the hottest things I’ve ever seen. “Hello there, gentlemen.” “Hi there,” one of them purrs back, and another says, “I knew it was your first night, I would’ve remembered seeing you here before.” “We’re regulars,” a third man adds, and Stohler cocks an eyebrow at me. So that’s why she’s sitting with them; she must’ve seen the owners chatting with them during her little recon mission. “Well, hopefully we’ll be seeing each other around here a lot more after tonight,” I say, letting my smile turn a little sweeter as I lean over to brace my hands on the edge of their table. “So, is there anything I can do for you guys?” The one closest to me lets out a very loud, satisfied hum and says, “Well, for starters, you can bend over that table a little bit more and let my friends get a look at that booty on you, good lawd.” The fake little smile on my face gives way to genuine, bewildered delight. I’ve never had someone refer to my ass as “that booty,” and I’ve sure as shit never gotten a “good lawd” over it. It’s bizarrely flattering, so why the fuck not? I drop from my hands to my forearms so that I’m pretty much bent at the waist. “You mean something like that?” “Look at you,” Stohler whoops, louder and showier than she’d ever normally be. She produces another dollar from the pocket of her skinny jeans and pins it under the band of my shorts. She smacks a kiss to my cheek—a terrifying and creepy amount of affection from her—and says, “Earn your keep, baby.” “That’s right,” one of the others joins in, and before I know it, Stohler’s whole collection of homos is feeding bills into my shorts like I’m a fucking vending machine. Ones and fives and tens, finally a twenty that is delivered along with a slap to my ass. Dangerous territory—I quickly straighten up and say, “Anything else I can do for you guys?” “Actually, yes,” one guy says. “Can you please see if the VIP area is free? There were some kiddies in there earlier, I have no idea who let them in there. But we usually take over that area on Friday nights.” “Yeah, and we’d like there to be bottle service when we get in there. Talk to Matty at the bar, he knows what we like,” another adds. He slips me some more money, but these bills go into my hand, not my shorts. “For the trouble. I’m Joey, this is Trent. Just mention our names, Matty’ll know to add everything to our tab.” “Sure thing,” I say, smiling again even though what the fuck, I’m here to dance, not run errands. Still, it’s worth it for the fact that, when I turn away, I hear one of them say to the others, “He’s a sweetie, I hope he sticks around.” “I was thinking the same,” another says. “Cash, right? We’ll have to talk to Mikael about him.” Perfect. I readjust my collection of bills to make sure I won’t be littering money all over the dance floor as I cut across the room to scope out the VIP area. It’s empty, save the one security dude at the door. I tap his shoulder, slip him one of the two twenties that Joey handed me, and say, “There’s a group of regulars that are going to be getting bottle service in here in a few minutes, said their names are Joey and Trent. If any randoms come over, could you just tell them the area’s reserved?” The security dude nods and tucks the twenty into his pocket. My next stop is the bar, and thankfully, Matty does know who Joey and Trent are and agrees to have their service ready for them in five minutes. I’ve only got another minute left on the world’s least break-like break, and I spend it hurrying back across the club to where Stohler and her new “friends” are still sitting. I touch Joey’s elbow and say to the group at large, “The VIP room’s ready for you guys, and Matty said he’ll have your bottle service ready for you in five. I’ve gotta get back up on the bar, but you guys enjoy the rest of your night.” The one named Trent kisses me on the cheek, which is probably crossing some sort of boundary, but I don’t have time to dwell on it, because my ass needs to be back up on that bar now. The night passes in a blur from that point on. It’s hour after hour of the same thing—dance on the bar, get put on break, run upstairs to empty my money out into my locker, fix my hair and wipe some of the sweat off myself so I’m not gross, run back downstairs, spit out the same small talk, get back on the bar. The tips start coming in faster and faster as the night wears on, especially when Paul, true to his word, switches everyone around and puts me on the platform in front of the DJ booth. The dancing is physically exhausting, and my muscles are starting to ache; I wish I’d spent the day napping and stretching, not fucking and playing with guns. Luckily, I’m not the only one who’s less than prepared for all of this. During my second break, Paul finds me to inform me that two of the other auditioners have already been sent home for sitting down instead of dancing. During my third break, Stohler tells me that the kid in the purple shorts got so drunk—“off shots that might have been purchased for him by a kind stranger”—that he got kicked out. And during my fifth break, when it’s a little after two thirty in the morning and I’m contemplating calling it quits, Stohler tracks me down again before I can even get upstairs. Her lipstick is smeared, and her mouth is bleeding on one side. “Stohls, what the fuck,” I say, catching her chin between my hands and turning her head so that I can examine her injury. She waves me off and laughs. “I might have accidentally spilled a vodka cranberry on a lovely young gentleman in white briefs, and he bitch-slapped me in front of the owners. They had security throw him out immediately, and I get free drinks all night, as long as I promise not to call the cops. I also checked in with your friend who works here, and he says they’re hoping to hire three new guys and three new girls. By my count, there are nineteen people left in the running, including you. Nine girls, ten guys. That’s the best I can do without management figuring out I’m helping.” “Thank you, Stohler,” I say, meaning it more than I think she knows. I swipe my thumb under her lip to rid her of the lipstick smear, then kiss her forehead. “Go clean off that blood and enjoy as many of those free drinks as you want. I’ll take your keys, I can drive us back to my place in the morning.” Now that Stohler has literally shed blood in the name of getting me this job, there’s no way I can bow out. Newly reenergized, I dump her keys and my tips in my locker and throw myself right back into the fray. I ride that high through the rest of the shift, through last call, through the lights coming on. Stohler, now more than a little tipsy, finds me just long enough to let me know that she’ll be at a diner across the street, grabbing a cup of coffee while I change and find out my results. “You’ve got this, kid,” she assures me. “Couldn’t have done a better job myself.” “Yes, you could’ve,” I say, and she laughs. It’s a relief to see the doors close behind the last of the straggles. Even after the DJ stops playing, I can hear a phantom thumping in my ears. I retreat to the dressing room with the rest of the remaining dancers so that I can wash the sweat, grime, and inexplicable glitter off my face. My body still feels pretty gross, even after I change into a fresh t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that say “Patton Military Academy” down one leg. I pack up the rest of my stuff and cart it downstairs so that I can set myself up at one of the cocktail tables and count out my money. I made out better than I’d expected, but I still don’t know if it’s enough to impress the owners. I’ve got more one dollar bills than anything else, a bunch of fives, a handful of tens, and only three twenties. In a move that’d make Jamie’s lame, OCD ass proud, I organize all the bills by denomination, same-face them, and stack them in order before I report to Laura, the woman who’s supposed to count our money. The bitch is wearing flip-flops and sweatpants, and she looks like she has spent the entire night hanging out in a back room, doing absolutely nothing. “Hey, hon,” she says cheerfully. “You count that up already?” “Yeah,” I say, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet. “It’s, uh, three eighty-four? I don’t know if that’s good, or whatever, but—” “This your first night?” she says. I nod. She nods right back. “That’s great, then. Name?” “Ga—um. Cash,” I amend. If Laura notices the stumble, she doesn’t say anything. She puts my money through a bill counter to make sure I’m right, then hands it back. She writes my number on her clipboard, smiles, and waves me off to the section of the floor where the rest of the dancers are lounging, bored and half-asleep, waiting for possible rejection. I’m tired as hell, but I can’t afford to show it right now. It takes another twenty minutes, but finally, Jonathan, Mikael, and Ken all join the fringe of our group. Jonathan announces, “Alright, kids. We’ve made our decisions, and they are final. If you don’t make the cut, half some self-respect and get out. If you do, stick around for a few minutes so that Ken make sure your contact info is squared away. We’ll be calling you this week to let you know your hours. Mikael, let’s get this started.” “You,” Mikael says, pointing at one of the girls, then moving quickly through the group and pointing out others. “You, you, you, you, you, you two in the back, and you over there. Stand up.” He hasn’t pointed to me. Oh, fuck, he hasn’t pointed to me. The dancers he has pointed to all stand, and he smiles blandly. “Thanks for coming. You can see yourselves out. Don’t forget to take your belongings with you.” Without pausing to take note of their reactions, he surveys the ten of us who remain—six guys and four girls—then turns to Jonathan. “Your turn.” Jonathan purses his lips and points to two of the boys, then another girl. “You, you and you.” His eyes land on me, and his finger twitches. My heart is beating harder than it did through any of the dancing. I have no idea why I want this so badly, but I do. Jonathan’s eyes flicker over to the VIP area, then to another of the boys, who he points at. “You. Thanks for trying, have a good night.” I did it. I got the job—my first job, ever. I do not have the emotional maturity to hide my enthusiasm, so I draw my legs up to my chest so that I can bury my giant smile against my knees. Luckily, Ken makes the rounds with his own clipboard, so all I have to do is sit there and nod when he rattles off my phone number. The second I’m free, I book it over to the diner across the street so that I can collect Stohler—who is happy, but unsurprised—and drag her a few blocks uptown to the Starbucks where Travis works. He’s working over at the espresso station, not the register, and there’s a surprising lull in the number of customers, so I lope right over to him and blurt out, “I got the job.” He sets a large cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich down on the drink bar front of me, like he’s been waiting for me to show up so he could deliver them, then leans over the bar to press his smiling lips to my cheek. “I know.” I frown. “What, did Stohler text you on the way over here?” “No,” he says. “I just believe in you. I knew you’d get it.” It’s probably the best coffee I’ve ever had.